


Something In The Wind

by kayura_sanada



Series: What Good Is A Love Song [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cassandra Is A Big Sister, Dealing With A Physical Handicap, F/M, Post-Canon, Post-Trespasser, Sera Makes A Rebel of the Inquisitor, Tattoos, Winter Palace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 01:41:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8778085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayura_sanada/pseuds/kayura_sanada
Summary: Pinga Lavellan hunts down Sera in order to get her arm fixed up. She finds her at the Winter Palace – but someone else is waiting for her, as well.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This ridiculous two-parter just wouldn't get out of my head. I hope you enjoy.

No matter how many times Pinga Lavellan stood within the Winter Palace, she always found herself gawking like a child. The large, open rooms and their vaulted ceilings, the thick white pillars with pictures of Andraste and Maferath and the Maker’s war etched into the tops of the columns. Perhaps it was these which gave her a chilly feeling, as if she was being judged and found wanting. Perhaps that had to do with why she’d returned. Perhaps it was simply because the ostentatious room remained empty despite the middle hour having only just passed.

Every careful step, still tentative as she tried even now to get a hang of her new equilibrium, echoed like a blast from a Qunari ship. For a moment, she wondered why no one was in the room. Then Sera hopped out, and she wondered how the woman had gotten all of the servants to work with her so quickly.

“Pinga!” she shouted, and ran up to her. The young elf practically jumped on her in her rush to hug. Pinga let out a small oomph of air and struggled to maintain both of their weights with a severely compromised balance. She failed. Sera laughed after they fell, sitting up on top of her and holding on to her shoulders for balance. “Oi, not so hot now, are ya?” Sera slowly climbed off her and offered her hand. Pinga took it, only to nearly be pulled sideways as she struggled to get her feet under her while Sera yanked her up. The woman had to clap a hand back on her shoulder to steady her. Her smile wavered. “You all right?”

It was akin to how Sera had treated her right after she’d seen Solas again, after he’d left her with the news of his impending death and his plan to destroy the world. Pinga planted a smile on her face and swore to make her answer truth. “I’m fine, Sera. You said you wanted to see me before I gave Cassandra my title?”

Sera rolled her eyes. “The title’s yours, you idiot. The big lady’s just taking your army.”

“Hence why I hand over my title,” Pinga said, but Sera just waved the words away.

“You’re the Inquisitor, not Cassandra. That’s what you’ve been. What you’ll always be. The people will remember, even if the big hats don’t want them to.”

She still wavered on whether that was a good thing or not, but before she could continue, Sera pulled her forward. “Come on! Before the old birds find us.” She snorted at her own joke before leading her forward, through the room and into a hall. “Look, I wanted to show you something, but I don’t know how you’ll take it, okay? Just, you know. Don’t be mad an’ all, all right?”

Well, that sounded a bit worrisome. Especially from Sera. But Pinga nodded. “I know you don’t want to hurt me, Sera. It’ll be fine.”

Sera bit her lip, but in the end she seemed to choose to keep dragging her. The lack of heaviness on Pinga’s left side still bothered her, distracted her. She was grateful Sera chose not to notice. The young elf had been the first to embrace her new look, so to speak; everyone else had tip-toed around her new handicap. But Sera. Sera had said only, “better ‘n’ dead, I’d reckon.” And Pinga had agreed.

Another hall, then one more, and suddenly she was in a small anteroom. Sera let go of her hand and ran to the crates and barrels hidden in the back, moving two boxes before finally wrenching one open. Pinga watched her, watched her easy use of two hands to hold up the crates’ weight, and thought about how she could do it herself. She would have to latch it onto a hip and try to lever it up that way. Depending on how heavy the object, she would no longer be able to do it.

With a crow of triumph, Sera stood up. Something long and metallic rested in her hand. Pinga tilted her head at the sight. “What is it?”

“Check it out!” Sera said, bringing it back toward her. “I talked to Varric about it; he handled a lot of the technical stuff. But the idea was mine, and I made sure it shot straight.” She held out the item, and Pinga finally recognized it as a sort of crossbow. It was much smaller than Bianca, but it looked hefty and sleek. She wondered if the real Bianca, Bianca the dwarf, might not have also had a hand in its construction. “Look.” And Sera pointed to the back of the crossbow, where a round base and several hooks and latches resided. It looked almost like it connected to something. “There’s a – well, it’s a thing. Varric used a bunch of weird words, but the point is it can latch onto your bum arm. Sorry,” she said, shrugging at the un-politick term. “But Varric said it would hurt, and would probably be permanent. But it’s a way for you to shoot again.”

If anyone could understand just how much she needed that, it would be Sera. Pinga had come back from her reunion with Solas without any means to defend herself or her friends, without any means to hunt down a way to save and protect Solas. She’d burned, knowing she couldn’t fight anymore, knowing her friends would be in danger and she would stand on the sidelines, useless.

Reverently, she reached out and touched the crossbow. “The – port?” she asked, and Sera shrugged and nodded all at once. “The part that would be attached to me. I take it it could be released and replaced?”

She nodded. “This is just the tester, you know? Once we figure out how to do it better, we’ll switch it out. This part,” she said, indicating the back, “is the only thing that would be the same. And even that could be changed. But to keep it on you for sure, Varric said we had to, uh, secure it. In your skin. Which is gross. But he said otherwise, it could knock loose and screw up your aim.”

She didn’t care. In that instant, all she cared about was the chance for just a little more autonomy. “Sera, it’s perfect. Thank you.”

She shrugged and blushed. “Yeah?” A big grin broke across her face. “Great! Then we should get it on you, yeah?”

She bounced up and down on her toes. Pinga put up a hand. “Yes. But first, I have a bigger request to ask of you.”

“Oh? Is it good? Tell me it’s something good.”

Slowly, Pinga smiled. Sera laughed in delight.

* * *

She’d thought about this over and over again in the weeks since she’d learned of Solas and the Evanuris. She’d agonized over the decision, over the pictures and the visuals in her mind, the ideas she wanted to make visible. She didn’t know even now if it was right, if it encompassed all she wanted to say. But she could add on the rest later, if it came. For now, knowing the very bottom of her arm would soon be covered forever, she found she could no longer afford to hesitate.

Sera, of all her friends, would be the one most likely to know where to go and who to meet to get what she wanted. The practice was known to the Dalish, but only in the form of the vallaslin. And that was not what she wanted.

Perhaps she’d couldn’t turn away completely from the idea of being marked. Perhaps this was a crutch, or a way to continue her peoples’ new ways. But to her, it felt like it was something right. Something just for her. A pledge, a vow, made by her to those who knew her.

Sera practically rubbed her hands together in glee when she learned what the lauded Inquisitor wanted.

She knew where to go, of course. And though the Dalish closely guarded their secrets, it was inevitable that others sought to mimic the craft, at the very least. Val Royeaux, unsurprisingly, hid some of the best. Sera led her to one, then to two, then three, each giving her a short draft of art for her to consider. While no one actually watched her – or even seemed to give notice of her as Inquisitor, still she felt as if people studied her intent as she moved. Only Sera’s blithe disregard of such things saved Pinga from a sudden onslaught of nerves.

In the end, she went with the second drawing, given to her by a woman in a tight white and blue dress and a mask showing her to be of minor nobility. Sera informed her the mask was very likely stolen, or perhaps forged. Wonderful.

But the woman’s piece was the best, and Pinga finally returned to her and told her exactly what she was looking for.

“Of course, darling,” the woman said, flicking a slim-fingered hand. “I am here to make your thoughts real.”

The statement left Pinga nearly breathless. Yes. That was what she wanted. “I need more than just the picture I asked for.”

The woman smiled. Pinga couldn’t see it past the mask, but the instant the woman spoke, she could hear it. “The look in your eyes, darling, there’s something special you want done. And most elves, they don’t want a human working on them.”

Honestly, it made her a bit uncomfortable, as well. She couldn’t help but think that, perhaps, she should have asked her people to have this done, after all. But she didn’t know if just the symbol on her face marked her for one of the gods, or if the process itself held something that would touch her in some similar way. Better a human hand, a human method, than anything that could link her to the Evanuris.

Plus – and though this was selfish, it was the truth – this wasn’t for her clan or her people. It was for her.

She rolled up the shirt sleeve she had on and pointed at the flesh-covered area just above where her lower arm had sat, empty of all but touch-memory. With her fingers, she showed the woman what she wanted, and where. Sera hummed and whistled, getting into the space between them to point to her arm and make her own suggestions. To those who didn’t know her well, it may have been surprising to learn just how astute Sera could be. For Pinga, her insight was unsurprising, but touching. And accurate. She smiled and nodded. Then, finally, she stood back while the woman got her materials ready. “I’ll start with outlines,” she said. “Tomorrow, I want you to come on in again, and I’ll see if I can’t get it finished. If I can’t, it’ll just be one more day. That said, it will likely take several hours both today and tomorrow.”

Pinga nodded.

“Lie down there,” she said, waving her hand distractedly toward a table with a long cushion on it. She did as bade, Sera trailing right on after her. She took a seat in a plush chair beside the table.

“You sure about this?” Sera asked. It was the first time she’d hesitated. “You know this is going to hurt.”

“Good practice for the bow, then, huh?” she said, and grinned. Something in her was much lighter now. As if the thoughts she’d had whirling in her head since the dissolution of the party – no, since Solas had walked away – could finally settle. “I’m actually excited. Giddy. This is the first time I’ve ever broken the rules like this.”

Sera cackled, swinging her legs back and forth in her chair. “Feels good, right?”

Pinga laughed, her heart light for the first time in weeks. “It does.”

* * *

She met with Cassandra hours after she’d been expected. The woman looked at her with a deep brightness and practically ran from the four women gaggling around her. “Inquisitor!” Cassandra called, as if Pinga hadn’t seen her. The Divine gripped her wrist tight. “Come. We have much to discuss, and little time.”

“But–”

Cassandra held up her hand. “Not now. You know very well how important this is.” And apparently, that was enough to get the Chantry mothers to stop in their efforts to swarm around them both. Cassandra pulled Pinga with her to the nearest room with a lock on its door. It snapped closed with a loud click, only for Cassandra to sigh loudly and thunk her head against the ornate wall. “You certainly took your time coming.”

“Sera grabbed me,” she confessed, carefully keeping the rest away from Cassandra. Not that she feared Cassandra’s reaction, though she could imagine the concerned disapproval. Just that she wanted this to be hers until it felt right. Unfinished, it couldn’t. Keeping the secret was hard, however, when the entirety of her arm pricked and throbbed like fire ants had settled on her skin. “Sorry. Did I leave you to those women? I thought you were getting more used to your new station.”

“I am. That does not mean I am able to enjoy the fluttering harpies and their incessant complaints.” Pinga giggled. Cassandra pulled herself off the wall to send her baleful glare. “I am glad you are in high spirits. When last I had seen you…” Cassandra seemed to think better of the topic and instead said, “are you ready for this?”

“I’m far more ready to give up the title than I’d been to accept it,” Pinga said, remembering how her friends had practically foisted the position of Inquisitor onto her. They’d astutely known that giving her the opportunity to back down would have meant her disagreement. Sticking her in front of everyone had forced her hand. She could not leave those people even more destitute than they’d been after Haven.

Sneaky. It had likely been Leliana’s idea. Though one couldn’t discount Cassandra entirely.

“I’m glad. Do you – have you thought about what you’ll do? When it’s over?”

It had been over for weeks. Years, really; she thought they’d been working toward this moment all this time, waiting for the chance when the Inquisition could be little more than a guiding hand for all nations. A piece of togetherness, one that stood for all people instead of just those of a certain nation. She hadn’t wanted it under religious jurisdiction, but she had to have faith in Cassandra. More than anyone, Cassandra, having dealt with the secrets of the Seekers, would know to treat the Inquisition as a group of people under a single banner.

She shuffled her feet. “In all honesty – I want to begin looking.”

Cassandra’s lips thinned. She crossed into the room, looking at home within these ostentatious walls. Pinga turned, only to see plush chairs and dark cherry wood tables, silver candelabras and a chandelier glittering like starlight. “You’re going to do it, then.”

“We can focus on stopping Solas,” Pinga said. “Or you can. The Inquisition can. But – I have to see if there’s another option. Something else that could help us bring back the elves, or at least give us the option. A way to breach the Veil. I don’t believe it’s healthy for our worlds to remain severed. Not if they were meant to be together.”

“It would be disastrous. The demons alone,” Cassandra started.

“I know,” she said. “I don’t know what chaos Solas spoke of, but I know that even the most peaceful of joinings would bring chaos to the nations of the world. And things have changed too much for any attempt to rejoin the groups to not have any repercussions. But I don’t think it’s impossible. I want to help my people. I want to help Solas. And I want to protect this world we’ve risked our lives for.”

Cassandra pulled off the Divine’s hat and placed it on one of the end tables. “You ask for too much, Inquisitor.”

“Just Pinga soon,” she reminded her. “And if one doesn’t ask, then one never receives an answer.”

Cassandra snorted a short smile and shook her head. “Well, that is true.” She looked Pinga over again then, from top to bottom. “You really do look better. So this is the choice you’ve made?”

“I cannot abandon his goal,” Pinga said. “I think he acts impetuously, but what he wants isn’t necessarily wrong.”

“Inquisitor – Pinga,” Cassandra said, correcting herself after a look. “This world has changed from what he knew.”

“I know. And despite everything, it’s a world worth living in. And worth protecting.” Pinga hesitated before saying, “I think he’s wrong, Cassandra. But I also think he’s in a very bad place. I think he’s desperate to fix what he did, and he’s unable to see our world for what it is. But Cassandra, you saw it, just as I did. We’ve all lost something here. Something important. The Fade, spirits, are meant to be a part of our world. We’re supposed to walk cohesively with them. _Think_ about how much knowledge, how much beauty, we’ve lost because of the Veil and our own fearful superstitions. There is no good reason why we can’t embrace the good of the past while we reject the bad. Or else what’s the point of moving forward at all? We’re merely starting all over again.”

Cassandra shook her head. “Inquisitor.” Pinga recognized that tone. She tried not to tense. “I know you care for him. But–”

“Whether I care for him or not,” she said, daring to interrupt her friend, “it’s true.” Cassandra frowned. “The Fade was once a natural part of our world – one even humans once resided in. It was not a world beyond any of our comprehension. But now we’ve lost – so much. The Dalish got one thing right – the answers lie in our past. Whether you want to think of it as your Maker, chance, whatever – we have found something. Something that can help the lives of _all_ people, if we use the chance wisely.”

“Solas is not using it so,” Cassandra said. But she did not disagree. “What you suggest is highly dangerous, especially as we know very little about it,” was what she did say. Which meant she was considering it.

“It is. Really, all knowledge is, but this could shake the world.” She took a deep breath, getting back to the point. “But I want to find that other way. If I can – if I can find even just a hint…” She felt her heart flutter and clutched her arm. The pain reminded her of the design etched on her skin – of her vow. “There is another answer besides the extremes. I want the chance to show him that. To give him another path.” One that wouldn’t include anyone fighting – or dying.

“So you will go on your own quest, much as the Hero of Ferelden has.”

Pinga nodded, relaxing slightly as Cassandra began to understand. “I’ll still do what I can to help, but–”

“I understand.” Cassandra motioned her to one of the seats. Only after Pinga sat did Cassandra do the same. “You feel you must help your people as you helped us. And while I don’t agree with you on the Fade, I do believe there is much we do not understand. I fear, however, that you are allowing your personal feelings to cloud your judgment.”

Pinga tapped down her ire at Cassandra’s words. The very fact that she got so upset was evidence that the Seeker was right. “I don’t think I can ever be unbiased about this, Cassandra. Right now, I can only do what I think is right.” She laughed softly. “That’s all I’ve ever been able to do.”

“But – if I may.” Cassandra leaned forward and put her hands together. “You told me once that you see him watching you in your dreams. Have you considered that he may be spying on you? On the Inquisition?”

No. She hadn’t. “Why would he?” she asked, shifting in her seat. “He has his spies.”

“Who are nothing compared to the Inquisitor herself.” Cassandra’s eyes were sharp, though her body language, from her leaning forward to her reaching hands, spoke only of earnestness.

Again, Pinga curbed her initial reaction. Her heart rebelled against the very idea of Solas using her like that. He’d said what they’d had was real. Would he really turn right around after apologizing for lying and deliberately use her?

No. She didn’t believe he would.

“Solas is a lot of things, Cassandra. Desperate. Devoted. Distraught.” She sounded like Cole, she thought, and smiled. “Obsessed in his belief in duty. But I don’t believe he’s evil. I saw what it cost him to walk away. I don’t believe he’s so lost or so far gone that he would forsake what we had.”

“Didn’t he?” she asked gently.

Just the day before, the question would likely have hurt immeasurably. Today, she felt confident enough to take it. “He chose a mission he believed to be more important than us. Than, I believe, his happiness. Even my own unhappiness wasn’t enough to turn him from what he believes he must do. That doesn’t mean he’s turned from me.”

Cassandra did not look at all convinced. Pinga understood. She sounded like a lovestruck fool. But Cassandra hadn’t seen what she had. Every action, every word, every minute expression of body and face showed how painful it was for him to choose his duty over her. She thought she understood him, perhaps for the first time in their acquaintance. She finally knew why he kept pulling away from her.

The silence grew, pulled nearly in two by the dissonant thoughts resonating between them. Pinga took a breath and breached the distance. “You chose to believe in Solas despite everything, back when he first arrived in Haven. You sensed in him the desire to help. That’s all he is. Just…” Her hand came up, trying to explain in movement what she couldn’t in words. She quickly realized her failure and dropped it again. “He tries, awkwardly and fiercely, to move. And he loves, too much and too quickly. He is like Veilfire.”

“It’s the Veil part I’m worried about,” Cassandra said, but she sighed again and leaned back. “Yes, I have seen what you have. I just – Inquisitor. Pinga,” she said, grimacing at Pinga’s pointed glare, “I know very well how poorly this could end. You have no way of knowing there even is another choice. You have pinned all your hopes on little more than faith.”

Her fingers clenched tight around the cloth of her pants. “It’s all I have, Cassandra. It’s all any of us has.”

“I know.” Cassandra stood, seeming to shake off the worst of the solemnity that had gathered like dust around them. She held out her hand. “Come. We really should try discussing what we’re actually here for.”

Pinga gave her a grateful smile. “I suppose, though we both know very well it’s all ceremony by now.”

“My dear Inquisitor,” Cassandra said, her voice raising an octave, “ _this_ is _Orlais_. Ceremony is merely due course!”

Pinga laughed.

* * *

The next day saw Pinga back at the young noblewoman’s studio, for lack of a better word, before the dawn. As they’d discussed before Pinga had left the day before, the woman was waiting for her, her tools already out and ready. Pinga eyed the long needles, new and shining brightly in the ample light of the room, for a long moment before looking away. She’d seen the outline yesterday; she didn’t regret this.

Sera wasn’t with her this time; she’d alluded to having to check on the servants. The young elf would try to get there later, if possible.

“This will take much of the day if done all at once,” the woman said, though she had explained the same just yesterday. “You are certain you wish to finish it today?”

She nodded. “I’m only staying in Val Royeaux for a short time. And… I want this. As soon as possible.” She smiled. “No rush.”

“Oh, don’t worry.” The sound of the woman’s smile was back. She moved around the table of her tools, her skirt only to her waist and some sort of lacy, satiny garment wrapped around her legs, likely to remain fashionable while functional. But then she took off her yellow-gold mask. This time, Pinga saw the grin. “I am accomplished enough to create art within time constraints.”

Pinga smiled back. The woman was beautiful without the mask; her face seemed to have been swarmed by freckles, her teeth showing the slightest gap in the front when she smiled. “Then I’ll leave you to it.”

The woman nodded. “Do that, and I will give you a picture of your soul.”

Pinga’s grin grew so wide it hurt. “Please do.”

* * *

The Council’s congregation was little more more than formality, but it was Orlais, so it gathered in all pomp and circumstance, anyway. After having seen how ordinary these people could be underneath their masks, however, the show of riches didn’t faze her the way it had before. Or perhaps she’d just grown jaded to the allure, as Leliana had.

She stood in the same room she’d been judged from before. As before, Cassandra sat in attendance, the Divine granted the place of honor in the middle of the proceedings. The two people in attendance on either side of her, however, were new. Pinga glanced over them, the man and woman respectively, then ignored them. It was not to Orlais that she gave her people or her title. It was to her friend. To try to continue what they started in a world that seemed determined to fall into darkness.

She looked up to these three people, the room crowded on every side by nobles already gossiping quietly in their seats, and thought to when she’d stood in the exact same place just weeks ago. Had she really been considering disbanding the Inquisition then? Before she’d learned of Solas’ plans, or of the Qunari plot against all of Thedas?

Cassandra met her gaze and nodded. “We have gathered here today to discuss the arrangement of titles,” she began, and Pinga stood tall.

* * *

She walked alone after the so-called hearing, her head almost dizzy with the ridiculous posturing she’d just been forced to endure. At last, it was over, she thought. Not just for today, but forever. She would no longer be expected to lead anyone, let alone a bunch of humans too often concerned with the length of one’s ears than the state of one’s intentions.

No longer would she stand, shielded from the buffeting of the wind by friends, those of all races and creeds, some strong and wide enough to take on hurricanes, others gentle and kind enough to defend her heart. For the first time in a very long time, she would be all alone.

She rolled her shoulders. She could still feel the press of the nobles’ eyes as they watched with greedy delight as she handed over her position and title to their Chantry. She wondered, not for the first time, if she’d chosen correctly. Perhaps she should have done as Mother Giselle had wished and disbanded the group entirely. Even a much weaker Inquisition was still powerful enough to become corrupt. As corrupt as all the other groups she’d watched fall apart. She feared that one day, the Inquisition might become like the Grey Wardens.

The feeling of being watched remained, and she looked behind her down the hall. No one. It was as empty as the hall before her. Which made no sense, because there were always guards. They stood unobtrusively to every entrance or turn in the castle. Where were they now?

It wasn’t just a feeling. She wasn’t alone.

The thought crashed through her mind an instant before something moved behind her. She spun to her left, nearly smacking into the wall before she got her bearings again. Where she’d stood, a woman crouched, her dagger sweeping the air. The woman turned to her. A gray mask covered her face. Pinga’s lips thinned.

The woman was short, shorter even than Pinga, likely not even breaching a fifth foot. In comparison, the woman’s long ears, poking out from beneath the mask, seemed almost like spears. Pinga ducked and whirled, sliding her half-arm along the wall for balance as she kicked. The bandages around her arm crinkled loudly beneath her sleeve. The elf jumped back, Pinga’s foot barely grazing the woman’s mask. It tipped to the right. Before Pinga could see more than the well-tanned skin of her forehead, the woman raced toward her once more. Pinga had to stumble to the side to escape.

The woman’s dagger clinked into the stone wall, then scraped along as the woman followed Pinga’s graceless movements. Pinga pulled her waist back, placed her hand on the floor, and backflipped her legs into the air. This time, she heard the distinct click of the mask pulling loose and clattering to the floor at her attack. The hit was little more than a graze, however, and when she pulled herself shakily to her feet, she found the assassin a few feet away, her eyes blazing, her teeth pulled back, her brown hair loose around her face.

Pinga’s feet wobbled when she jumped again. Her arm, feeling cotton-thick wrapped in its bandages, wheeled wildly through the air as she regained her balance. Backflips had been much easier with two arms. Fighting had been much easier, back when she’d known her center of gravity. Now she tilted slightly to the right, over and over, as she struggled to keep distance between herself and the blade. She assassin was fast, flighty in a way that reminded her of Sera when the woman gave up on long distance and fought like a street brawler against those who came too close. Pinga ducked a swing that came into her personal space, moved for a punch and had to do a quick retreat when the assassin pulled away and twisted to her weaker left side. She barely blocked the woman’s wrist as she stabbed again. She heard the knife scrape against the bandages. She gasped and backed away. Her gaze locked on the blade, zooming in on that one item, the twist of her attacker’s arm and wrist, the glint on the metal from the torchlight. Vaguely, she heard voices from far away, the sound of surprise and anger. It only registered because, immediately after, her attacker jumped into the battle with more vigor. The woman charged her left side, and though Pinga turned to keep the woman in front of her, her thrusts kept pushing Pinga back against the wall. With nothing to counter them, she found herself backing against the stone over and over again, barely pulling loose with a jab at the assassin’s flank or a kick to her knee. But then the woman got a glance on her side, and when Pinga flinched, the woman backfisted her to the floor.

She slammed onto the ornate tiles, her breath knocked out of her, her cheek on fire. She moved to get up and stumbled when only one hand pressed to the floor. In the thick of the battle, she’d forgotten, for a moment, that she couldn’t push up with two arms. She barely saw the kick before it hit her, her back arcing as she rolled across the floor. A heavy weight pressed down on her. She coughed, struggling for breath as the assassin sat on her waist, holding her down. She raised her arms on instinct, trying to shove the woman away, to keep her throat safe. The woman grabbed her hand and leaned down, her mouth pressing almost intimately to Pinga’s ear. “Long live the Inquisitor,” she whispered. Pinga stilled. She could feel the sharp press of the blade on her chest.

“Inquisitor!”

Her focus snapped outward at the sound of Cassandra’s voice.

Suddenly the assassin tensed and jumped off of Pinga. She saw a blur of silver chasing the assassin as if it was her shadow. It barely missed cutting off Pinga’s nose as she  rolled away. An instant after she moved, Cassandra was above her with a roar. The Divine lashed out with a shield, the hard sound of metal on flesh cracking through the air. Pinga struggled up, only to be blocked by two guards. One held only his shield. The other kept his sword at the ready, his back and arm empty of any defense. She looked to the side to see the first guard’s sword finally finish skittering across the floor, its hilt bouncing lightly against the wall. In counterpoint was the rushed flurry of attacks made by Cassandra with her own sword. Pinga’s would-be assassin stepped back once, twice, then made a mad dash for the window. Pinga shouted, appalled. The woman jumped through and vanished. Cassandra leaned out after her. “She’s on the parapets below!” she shouted, and Pinga’s madly racing heart stilled. So the woman hadn’t been mad enough to try to kill herself for her duty, then. Whatever her duty may have been. “Get your men and go after her!”

The Divine looked half-mad herself, Pinga mused dazedly. Her hat was gone, her hair in wild disarray, but she still wore her robe – to her knees. It seemed she’d cut the bottom off for the battle. Pinga found herself laughing at the sight.

Cassandra bent beside her and searched her over. “Inquisitor, are you hurt?”

“Not the Inquisitor,” she murmured, her mind sifting slowly through the rest of her words. “I don’t know.” She looked down. Blood lightly clotted the side of her torso, pinked a tiny portion of the bandages. Concerned for the tattoo, she started unrolling them.

“What is this?” Cassandra asked, looking at the bandages herself. “What happened?”

“Nothing. It’s fine.” There was the constant throb from the application, but she’d been assured that it was normal. Other than that, there was only the slim, sharp pain from the slice of the assassin’s daggers. “Do you think there was poison on her blades?”

“Probably,” Cassandra said. “Do you feel anything?”

Pinga shook her head. “Nothing.” That didn’t mean she was safe, however.

Cassandra looked to where her assassin had fled. Her lips thinned. “An elf,” she said, her voice resonant with meaning.

Pinga shook her head. “But not his.” Solas would not be a part of this. Even she could figure out what it was for. To make her a martyr, to make the Chantry seem twisted and evil, corrupt enough to use a hero and then discard her when her use was at an end. That was not Solas’ goal. He’d deliberately chosen to save her life. It had nothing to do with him.

Cassandra helped her up. “Come on. Lets get you to the healer’s. Then you can tell me what–”

Cassandra’s breath hissed in when Pinga finally revealed her arm. The Seeker’s jaw dropped. Pinga carefully skimmed her fingers over the raw wounds of her tattoo, checking the slice. Her frown faded, however, after a few moments. “It looks to be all right. It didn’t hit a rose or the detailing.”

Carefully, Cassandra touched the bottom of her arm and lifted it. Down there, where her elbow met air instead of joint, was what looked very much like a rift. The colors were the same, as were the jagged, almost crystalline protrusions that rose up her arm. But those same protrusions slowly changed into a slightly deeper hue, darker, and thinned. They snaked across and into and around one another, their long stems punctuated by thin, sharp thorns. They traced their way up her arm. A few burst early, barely three inches up. Some grew all the way to her shoulder. One blossomed right on the top of her deltoid, the largest and thickest of all.

Cassandra traced the lines with her gaze, then hovered over them with her fingers. She lifted Pinga’s arm even higher, twisted it slightly, only to see a few more roses, one budding slowly open, on the underside. The woman gasped outright when she finally saw it.

Deeply nestled beneath the roses and their stems was a light gray shape, its form standing, its head slightly hunched. A hunter watching its prey. If one looked very, very closely, they would see the form of its rock, its long legs planted firmly, its head low. Its eyes glowed ever so slightly. From its perch, the wolf stared straight out of the gray.

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra said, and nothing more.

“There’s more,” she said, her lips daring to slip into a smile. She pointed to the flowers. One’s veins she traced, so Cassandra could see the symbol for the Seekers hidden within. Another’s blades were shaped oddly like a crossbow, another like a more normal version of the same, its thorns like arrows. Another shone almost like the Fade. The tallest’s thorns were shaped like horns.

All in all, there were eleven roses encircling her arm. Cassandra dared to lightly trace the one representing her, then pulled her hand back. She cleared her throat. “What is this for?”

“For me,” Pinga said. She stood, wrapping her right hand around her waist to clutch her injured side. “I wanted something for myself. Perhaps it could be a new way of honoring the markings we Dalish bore. Or perhaps it could be a symbol, one simply for myself. But it’s what I needed.” A symbol, perhaps, of family. And a way of honoring this part of her past. A promise to never forget.

Cassandra’s gaze dipped down to her elbow. Perhaps the woman understood; the tattoo, left on her disabled arm, showed not destruction or pain, but hope and renewal. It showed what she’d gained instead of lost. What protected her. What nourished her. And behind them all, what she knew, and what she loved, and what she searched for. The tattoo was her trophy, her piece of triumph. The right kind of vallaslin.

She smiled. “So how about we go see that healer?”

Cassandra blinked a couple of times before snapping to attention. “Of course.” Her lips thinned. “And then we will start your new training. Immediately.”

Despite her battlemaster tone, the Seeker wrapped her arm around Pinga’s shoulders and leaned in. Pinga wasn’t so injured that she needed to take the woman’s weight, but she did so, anyway. She placed her throbbing left arm against Cassandra’s back. “Thanks.”

Cassandra gripped her tight. “You are always welcome.”


End file.
